A Tip of the Hat
by Alan Capella
Summary: Bits and pieces of the life of the good doctor, before the Shadowman came to be.
1. A Nightmare

There's a funny difference in men who're about to die, and know it, and then those who don't. There's an even harsher difference between those who know they're dying, but also the fact that they're the cause of it. Knowing that each and every second as the end draws closer, as excuses and attempts at reconciliation grow weaker and weaker, that they're the ones to blame.

"Just a little more time-!"

Emile shuddered in his bed, his mouth clenched tight as to keep the scream in. He wasn't one to have nightmares often. When they did come though, the next day there was always something about him that was a little bit off; as if he knew that something was brewing on the horizon.

He stared at his ceiling, and blinked, chest rising and following as he tried to purge the demons from his mind. The blanket, a patchwork quilt with swirls of red and violet amongst the browns and blacks – little treasures his mom had managed to piece together out of nothing – rustled as he turned on his side, all angles and eyes as big as saucers. The boy was going to be tall one day, his mom'd said so; but for now he had to suffice with gangly limbs and disproportioned features, all hidden under a mop of black curls.

After a few more restless moments, eyes shut too tight for their own good alongside clenched teeth, Emile forced himself out of bed, the floor creaking ever-so-slightly under his weight as he walked down the hall. His voice was quiet, his quilt wrapped around him entirely, head barely peeking out from under its covers.

"-Mama…" Softly. The voice of a scared little boy, just barely louder than the noise of breathing, coming from a gap-toothed frown. "-Mama…?"

Her snoring was good enough evidence for him that she was sound asleep. Didn't seem worth the tongue-lashing he'd get to wake her, but he didn't know if he'd be able to get back to sleep. Not now. Not with the Technicolor nightmare still playing in his head, over and over, his heart thudding in his chest with every reimagining of it. It seemed to grow worse and worse with every mental replay, the poor man struggling as he was dragged, all of those scary demons and what-have-you.

Emile sat on the floor, and wrapped his blanket tighter around him, looking up at where his mother was sleeping, and still weighing the options in his mind. He couldn't just go back to sleep, because of all of those shadows and monsters, no… He pursed his lips for a second, cogs turning in the deep of his mind to the rhythm of his mother's delicate snores.

"They only was scary 'cause they were hurting that man." He muttered, looking from the ceiling, back to his mother. "-But they ain't done nothing to me, have they?" All the swirls, and the excitement of the dream, all the thrill of watching. As scary as the monsters were, they were perhaps the neatest thing he'd seen in a good while. Not as though much exciting happened to him so colorful, so magical. Suddenly his head was bursting with all the possibilities. After all, they weren't necessarily bad. Just getting at the man for what he'd done.

Childish logic soon filled in the rest of the holes of the dream. The frightening became the exciting.

That man got his because he'd done something stupid. Emile could tell. He was making excuses, stammering, doing all the things Emile himself recognized from whenever he broke something, or otherwise messed up. Emile knew _he, himself_ wasn't stupid. In fact, he'd say that he was the smartest boy alive, even without book-training.

Which meant those monsters couldn't hurt him, not unless he did something wrong, no sir. A grin, a smirk of the questionable intent of boyhood curled from ear to ear, snuck over his face, hidden in the dark except for the white of his broken smile, until he had completely coiled into a little ball of quilt and floorboards, feeling warm from head to toe.

Oh the things those creatures could be good for – scary always got the job done – and it seemed even more that Emile was wishing he could see 'em himself again. His eyes were forced as tight as they could be, but not because he was scared anymore. On the contrary, he wanted to dream again. He wanted to see that fantasia of specters; he wanted to get to know them a little better.

At last sleep came, draping over the blanket cocoon on the wooden floor, hitting him hard and fast and melting his detailed imaginings down into a swirl of thick and heavy color. Eyelids folding over, his head resting on his arm in a funny angle, Emile yawned and couldn't help but think one last time about his peculiar midnight visitors.

_Y'know, maybe one day we might be friends._

There was a yawn, and he was fast asleep, curled up next to his mother's bed, dreaming of the nightmares once more.


	2. Royal Myself, on my Mother's Side

A princess. She had always wanted to be one – all sparkles and swishing skirts, all ball gowns and happily ever afters – yet from her little shack on the edge of the bayou, Madeline Facilier knew that it was an impossibility. Dreams did come true in New Orleans, but not for her, or the lot she came from. Wishes never came true in a land of poverty. She couldn't even recall seeing the evening star at night. It had always been covered under a cloud of reality and shame.

Yet, as she trudged into town every so often, just a sunken, lonely little shadow in the winding city, she couldn't help but eye what would never be hers. An education, a pretty little house, and of course the one thing a princess wanted most, at least according to the garbled fairytales her mother tried to read to her: A prince.

Maddie's prince went by the name of Jack. Jack Evans, the young man seemingly made of charisma. Tall, lean, well-dressed, and dapper. Smooth as butter when he spoke, with a spirit that tricked you into loving him without knowing it. In fact, Maddie hadn't even spoken a word to him once, and yet in her heart she was convinced she had met the man she was going to marry.

But no, he couldn't be the one for her. He already had a princess, a caramel-skinned ball of sunshine who would walk with him side by side, as they left their neat little schools to go to their clean homes and happy families. She was nothing like Maddie, who considered herself a far-from-delicate conglomeration of bones and dark, broad features. This girl, his girl, was just like him, in that she was perfect, sunny, and beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. She loved him, and rightly deserved him; Maddie couldn't shake the thought.

Every evening when Madeline strolled through New Orleans on a favor, she could see that girl writing scribbles of passion, and smiling at him so lovely. A lump in the poorer girl's heart told her that those two were meant to be. She had best leave it alone.

Yet, none of these attempts at curing the frown burned onto her heart succeeded, as she continued to follow the darling little pair; she was just a shadow, walking alone behind their happily ever after in the make. Days and days watching their happiness got to her, sending discontent to a boil. Why was she stuck like this? Trapped in a life she didn't chose… why was she born a serf when she knew she was meant to be a princess? No opportunities awaited her outside of the cleaning and laboring standard that her parents had set. No hope.

One evening though, an opportunity presented itself though, and while she was a lady of morals, she was not about to turn it down in a heartbeat.

_It's late, I should be goin' home soon_… The young woman thought, staring forlornly at her groceries, well knowing that she had been gone for much longer than what it took to buy a loaf of bread. She had been hoping to see Jack, but guilt and disappointment seemed to make a common pair in her life. She sighed slowly, standing up, preparing to make the sunset walk back home, when suddenly a voice she had heard so many times before stopped her in her tracks. The cage of her chest threatened to burst as her heart beat out of control.

"'Ascuse me miss," He said, in a smooth, low voice that sang more than it did speak. "I found this, just wondering if it happened t'be yours." He held out a small book she'd seen often, filled with the familiar scrawl of words that she recognized the girl writing. Words spun from the heart; perhaps some of the few words put so wonderfully when that foreign girl mumbled them to herself Maddie forced herself to learn them. She stared timidly for a few seconds, trying to assess the impossibility of the situation.

Jack's smile seemed to fade, until a squeaky reply was returned. "Uhyessir. I wrote them, I did." She felt as though the slightest wind could blow her over, her knees shook so.

He glanced at the book, and then back at Madeline, smiling that famous grin and speaking with genuine kindness. To her. She couldn't help but gawk. "Well miss, you're an excellent wordsmith; I ain't read nothing quite as interesting as what you've got t'say. A regular duchess with a pen."

"Princess." She corrected shyly, shock melting into elation. "A regular princess, royalty on my mother's side." A failed attempt at witty banter, nothing in comparison to him, no… She did a clumsy curtsy, blushing deeply and doing her best to be charming.

He didn't seem to find her embarrassing at all, which thrilled her deeply. In fact, the laugh that followed seemed to lift her spirit, and continue her little display of royalty, with a silly princess-wave. He grabbed her hand lightly – how smooth his hands were to hers; still strong from work, but nothing compared to the calloused gloves that could barely pass for a woman's hands. She wanted to pull back, out of humiliation, but his gesture suddenly wiped away the shame. He kissed her hand lightly, and she suddenly felt as though she had a place in high society, somewhere worthwhile.

"I seen you around, ain't I? Funny little shadow you are."

"Yeah, I been around. Not too often though, I live a bit out of the way."

"Really? I woulda thought you lived closer, what with all I seen of you. I guess I'm lucky then, 'cause no prince has whisked you away. I seen what I read, and trust me-" He paused, lifting her arm, and spinning her in a slow circle. She stumbled, but the giddy smile never left her face. "-I think I definitely would want t'be there first."

And so the first chapter of _her _fairytale was written from the words of another. A plagiarized dream come true, one that crackled in the back of Madeline's head as she realized what she'd done. This was entirely a stolen bit of happiness that would surely haunt her later, unbeknownst to her in the form of a boy named Emile. She'd repay it one day, she swore… do something to make up for this theft … But it never was repaid, not with all the happy nights slow dancing with Jack keeping her otherwise occupied. After all, she was a princess now.

And no one said that you couldn't _make_ the shoe fit.


	3. Frogs

"Ain't nothing but a coward, is he?" The oldest of the group of boys said, much to Emile's displeasure.

"I ain't no coward, but I sure ain't an idiot either. " He snapped, adjusting his black newsboy cap with the peculiar pheasant feather on the side. His face was hot, and his teeth were gritted; what usually was a charismatic smile was replaced quickly with the angry glint of white, interrupted only once by the gap in between his two front teeth. "I know how y'all run; y'always find someone dumber and younger than you t'do the dirty work. I don't play like that, and y'all know it."

The older boy, somewhere around fourteen with the lispy voice of adolescence smirked to the side, leaning towards a stocky friend and mumbling something low, before leaning towards Emile. His expression was smug, elitist. "Y'know Facilier, just because you're smart don't mean that you ain't a failure." The laughter behind him seemed fake. Forced out of cruelty, but not actual humor. The younger boy's fists balled, his eyebrows set firmly, and his body tensed as though waiting for the signal to strike. Their voices continued to echo around him.

"-I bet the kid ain't even got what it takes to catch a frog, what with all he's been cooped round in his house all that time. What you doin' in there Facilier? Making plans? Why bother, we all know you ain't followed through with a single one of 'em!"

"I have!" Emile snapped, getting close to the older boy, losing some of his slick composure. It only took a second for him to calm, a vague smile creeping at the edge of his mouth, his voice collected and sharp. His eyes never stopped burning though, in fact, you could almost say they smoldered even hotter, as the cogs of his mind sped at ideas of social redemption. "I'll show y'all, alright? I'll catch myself loads of them froggies, and bring 'em back. Tonight. "

While in itself the event was of minor importance, the way in which he said it made it seem like a pressing issue. It was quiet for a second as they analyzed the intimidating little figure. One of the older boys gave a gasp of faked fear, but it felt uncomfortably done. Nothing more was said as Emile walked off coolly.

_Now just t'figure out how to catch 'em. Shouldn't be too hard._ He thought, adjusting his coat, and thinking through the plan of attack. More often than not he did these kind of things - talking himself into eloquent plans much too big and outside of his realm of capability, and inevitably failing in the enacting of them. In the event of dumb bullies like these after he lost? Thank god he was a fast runner. Time ticked by as he trudged through the woods far away from schoolyard jeering, mumbling to his shadow what were sure to be great ideas. (At least they seemed great, until he thought them through.)

He paused at the edge of a pond dotted with lily pads, autumn leaves resting on its glassy surface. It seemed as good of a place as anywhere else. Not that he knew much about frogs, mind you. He leaned over the water, tinted a rich gold with the reflection of the trees around him. Two reflections looked back just over the ripple of tiny wildlife in the pond. His own, and his shadow's.

"Well, now where to begin, eh friend?" No response. In a narcissistic way, a shadow made the best company. He seemed to be the only chap as good looking as him, as great of a dancer, and quiet enough to understand his good ideas. Somewhere in the distance, a frog croaked, and Emile snapped to attention, the feather on his hat bobbing as he searched frantically for where it would be. It grew quiet as he waited for it… But the sound was interrupted by faraway voices, and the crunch of leaves underfoot.

"-Now James, stop it-"A woman's laughter.

Emile rolled his eyes, and ignored the couple in the distance, linked arm in arm. He returned with a determined face into the search for the croaking frog. They sounded happy, from what he could hear, but they were loud. And distracting. Just a pair of sincere handicaps to his grand master plan. He looked under a couple of leaves, sighing heavily as the frog refused to turn up.

"-Stop what?" They were laughing a good deal hard, the young man speaking with a gentle voice. She laughed harder, but suddenly he held out his hand to stop her, their voices growing quiet. Emile's voice was a deafening shout in his head. _Thank god they've finally gotten the sense to hush up!_

"There something wrong James?" Her voice took on a concerned tone. The pretty young lady looked up at the man's face, her eyes wavering under a pair of thick black lashes. He sighed, and turned his neck to look at her, smiling weakly.

Emile thought he'd seen it- a flash of hunter green amongst the vibrant oranges and golds! Sure it might only be one, but it was something, something to prove his greatness. He knelt to the ground, and eyed where he thought it had been. A telltale rustle of the fallen leaves aided him, along with ripples on the edge of the pond. Easy goes it, it just had to be around there somewhere…

"No, there's nothing wrong." The man in the trees muttered, looking into the eyes of the woman next to him. "I've just been thinking is all, thinking about what I want from the future. Y'know, the restaurant that one day I'll have, a cozy house, all that. The dream, Eudora."

"I know, I know… The dream…"

"But y'know, there's something I been thinking as well. What I need. I don't need no restaurant, I only _need _one thing." This James in the distance shuffled to the side as he pulled something out of his pocket, radiating warmth out of every inch of his forming mile-wide-smile. He turned back to her, bending on one knee. "And that's you. So…?"

There it was! Emile saw it. That slimy little ticket to success. It sat next to the pond, all green, blob-shaped and lopsided-looking. Yet, Emile Facilier, for only that second of time, had never seen a sight more beautiful, merely because of the good it would do for him. He crouched to the ground, tensing his long legs to lunge at it, extending his hands slowly like claws.

"Yes!" The woman shouted so loud Emile could feel it. He shuddered and tripped forward, face landing in the pond and soiling his hat. His mind was suddenly filled with wordless anger, just a red mass of seething directed solely at the pair, which were now embracing happily. He wiped a layer of mud of his face, and did a sorry attempt to wring out his sleeves. His now-dejected-looking hat floated lazily in the water, the striped feather on it broken, much to his dismay.

Somewhere just a short distance away, a pair was rejoicing in happiness. As for Emile? The frog mocking him with ribbiting noises just outside of the pond did a good job inflaming his feelings to their full potential. The wiry boy splashed the water, leaves and muck sticking to his freshly wrung sleeves.

He did not like frogs.


	4. Introduction to the Other Side

**Author's Note: Howdy! Just wanted to get my head on straight for a second; for reference, I started the first story with Facilier around eight, then skipped to how his parents met, then went to Facilier around twelve. This one'll take place when he's around eighteen or so, and just starting to dabble with the Other Side. Also, I'm looking for good historical references for the future, or people who know a lot about the types of voodoo he may have used. **

**Anyhow, sorry for this interruption, and hope you enjoy the stories. Reviews are absolutely loved, along with any ideas for what y'all want to see next. c: Thanks!**

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He couldn't take his eyes off his own reflection. So normal, so average, exactly as he noted it to be… except for his eyes. Funny how something so tiny as the color of his irises could twist his entire appearance. He shut them tightly, trying to recall his face without these additions – handsome, thin, but with warm brown eyes that kept him from looking like a skeleton. Human eyes.

But now? Facilier opened his eyes again, to once again marvel at how they changed him. It was as if a part of him was gone now. Years and years of having his mother's eyes were suddenly wiped clean. There was only a moment of grief… more at his own dashing good looks than any resemblance to his mother… before he realized the undeniable freedom of this minute change.

He was a self-made man. Every good in his life came from him. His work, his ambition, his success… All him. None of that silly woman, none of _nobody_ but himself. He stopped being revolted at his reflection, and started feeling pride. One of a kind fuchsia eyes. Showy, unique, and the stuff that brilliantly stands out amongst all the little people of the world… his style.

"Mama Odie said there'd be some side effects, eh? Didn't think it'd be something quite so lovely." He said aloud, speaking to no one in particular. "…Well, she's an old bat anyways. Not as though I'd trust her judgement." He ran his hand through his hair, which returned to its peculiar shape shortly after, and then rubbed his chin slightly. "…Now just to put all that she told me though to good use."

The young and very joint-y man turned on his heel, and clapped his hands together, before eagerly scribbling shapes and dotting the premises of the dusty old building, newly bought, with all sorts of this-and-that. To be honest, Facilier didn't believe (at first) that the other side would arrive with all this so-called voodoo going around… but one puff of smoke as he tried to conjure something tiny just the other day, and bam. Pigment rearrangement – and the opening of a new- no, _hundreds_ of new doors.

After frenzied labor, Facilier finished, wiping the chalk on his hands off on his face, and smiling wide with pleasure at the end result. Intricate, yes. He didn't quite understand why, not like them dead guys needed it… However, it did look darkly splendid, and in a way he could almost feel the power rippling through it. His voice was slightly sarcastic as he began to speak, eyebrows raised in a mix of excitement, and lingering skepticism.

"Oh great Loa of the dead," A pause, as he admired the key to the ceremony, a tribal mask stolen from a guy who stole it from who-knows-where. Its mouth was nothing but a razored grin, its empty eyes and horns clearly spelling demon. He returned its wicked smile, and then continued his little speech. "Friends… How y'all doin'? I know y'all have a lot to attend to, but I need to ask you a little favor, if you don't mind."

Suddenly there was a rush, as all the candles of the room were extinguished. Although his voice shook, there was something ecstatic, anticipatory about his tone. "Now this is what I'm talkin' 'bout."

Swirls of color, the faint shapes of shadows. Tormented souls and twisted figures of animals and people. He could only see them clearly out of the corner of his eyes it seemed. Whenever he tried to focus on one, it would vanish. They didn't speak. They only made noises somewhere between screams of agony, and angry groans. Yet he could understand their words perfectly.

_What do you seek?_

"I'm in the market for success. Power. Money, you name it. I'm lookin' to be good pals with y'all, if you can hook me up."

_What do you have to offer?_

"Well. I'm a little broke right now y'see. But I promise y'all I'll pay you with twice what I'm asking. Swear. My word's sound, honest. Facilier always repays his debts, or dies tryin'."

Groans and cackles filled the room as they seemed to think it over, before shadows filled the air, and screams of all kind. Colors twisting and turning, the jaws of the tribal mask ripping open as a funny little trinket was spat out, coming from a Technicolor abyss that he assumed to be the underworld. The Other Side. He tried to take it all in, all of the sounds, and the unholy sights. It was gone in only a matter of seconds though, before he was in a still and chalky room once more, only memories of the nightmarish flash filling the air.

He grabbed the knick-knack, and held it up in the sunlight, admiring it from all angles. A necklace of some kind, made out of a pair of bear claws. A dark laugh sounded in his throat as he lifted it over his head, slipping it cheerfully over his neck.

"Yes, yes… Yes!" His shout filled the room, sending a few birds perched on one of the windowsills fluttering away. Hands in the air, he screamed his story of success to the ceiling, waiting for the necklace to take effect. …And yet, nothing happened. It's a pity that voodoo didn't come with an instruction manual for beginners. However, everyone has to start somewhere, even if it is on the wrong foot.


	5. First Love

Sorry for such a long wait. D':

I've been crazy busy; I'll try to update this as much as I can in the future!

I'd love you forever if you can comment, I certainly would love the inspiration. Thank you!

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Emile has fallen in love before, on the contrary to some who saw the stunted weed of the man as some sort of plague to society. He loved his mother, up until the point where she betrayed him, and he loved his father, up until the point where he left him. Yes, on the contrary, there had been a lot of love in Emile Facilier's life… His first, being at age eleven.

She was a pretty little girl with fat blonde sausage curls that bounced around while she moved, and blue eyes that the art of fluttering to a tee. Her dresses cost more than Emile's house – he was certain of this, as he watched this little ball of sunshine bob-bounce through the New Orleans streets – and he had barely caught her name. Nettie LeBouf, he thought? A relative of _the_ LaBeoufs, staying with her uncle for a while for sure.

As far as puppy-dog-crushes go, Emile was a decent one. Just a quiet little shadow, trailing behind her without any idea as to why he kept following, given the hopelessness of the situation. However, this relationship of oblivious object of some kind of affection and semi-stalker was one day dramatically intervened. In the middle of the cold nights in his cluttered cave of solitude, Facilier would think back to it – and try to decide hopelessly if it was a positive memory, or not.

"Y'lost?" She said, wearing a pink gingham dress with ruffles spewing out the bottom. She stepped lightly, wherever she went, as to not ruin the shiny black Mary-Janes with heart-shaped buttons. "I mean, I seen you walkin' 'round for a while, curious as to where you're headed mister." Her brows were furrowed around the big blue pits of her eyes, contorting her pixielike into an expression of confusion, and… potentially irritation.

For the first time in a long while, Emile was struck silent. He bit his lip, looking upwards and over his shoulder embarrassedly, as if the words he was so desperately looking for might just suddenly appear. "Well, I, uh, was just… Uh… Welluh-" A blank-faced pause. "Y'have a pretty dress, miss."

If it was possible to look more airheaded than she usually was, which was quite an accomplishment for Nettie, it was then that she did so. After a moment of fully comprehending his words, she giggled, and grabbed the edges of it, twirling around until the pink checks turned into a swirl of lines and pastel hues. "I know! Ain't it gorgeous-" Her voice took on a sing-songy tune. She stopped fluttering for a moment, beaming ear-to-ear in a smile that would seem creepy on anyone but her face. "So what's your name, stranger?"

"Em-" He stopped, as another shadow joined them. A short but broad-shouldered boy, with thick red curls swirling all about his forehead. He was dressed pretty nice; Certainly nice enough to make Emile feel repulsed by his scraggly pants and shirt. Facilier jerked the cap off his forehead, the one with the broken feather, and shuffled a few steps backward.

"Who's this scrap from the gutter Nettie?" The boy said, cocking his head to the side. Nettie blushed and frowned accordingly, her lips pouting into a perfect U-shape.

"Oh, s'just a nice boy I met, s'all."

"A nice boy? He looks like something my cat drug in. Why're you messin' with his kinda lot?"

"Messin'? We was just talkin' Tommie, ain't no foul in that is there?"

Tom, the red-haired boy, pursed his lips. He turned to Nettie, putting on his best smile for her, his voice overly friendly. "I see; y'know Nettie, your uncle's been lookin' for you for a while now, said somethin' about a dress that didn't fit his daughter?" She lit up.

"Really? Another one? Ohgod, I best be gettin' to that!" She giggled slightly, ignoring the fact that Tom's smile vanished the second that she turned her back, blonde sausages bouncing up-down-up-up-down. Tom swiveled on his heel, facing Emile, his mouth furrowed into a thin line.

"You best not be thinkin' you'll ever 'mount to anything, that girl's mine, y'hear?" He stepped forward aggressively, Emile meeting this as he tried to amount to the full extent of his gangly height. "Ain't nobody need _your kind_ 'round these parts; and what d'you even call that ridiculous thing on your head, 'eh?" He laughed slightly, running a hand through his curls. Emile balled his fist.

There was a noise that sounded like some sort of cracking sound as Emile's punch made contact with Tom's handsome face. It was a noble gesture, loaded with suppressed anger at the prejudice of his society and longing for something more… But the second that Tom started blowing punches, it was evident that no matter how pure the intentions, brute strength will always succeed against a boy with the consistency of a spaghetti noodle.

"That's for you; y'gotta learn that there's a ceiling for your type. There's a limit. Y'can only do so much, alright?" Tom muttered, as Emile nursed his stinging, and slightly bleeding nose. He walked off, stepping on the jacket that he'd already shed in order to effectively punish Emile for his attempt, sniffing slightly and messing with his luxurious scarlet hair. Emile coiled around the jacket, sore in multiple places; the sleeve made an excellent stopper for his nose.

Inside was a wallet with crisp dollar bills. More than he'd seen in a long while.

This, and only this, was when Emile fell in love for the first time.

While some argued that his lack of feeling towards other human beings was detrimental, there was no lack of love in his life. Power, revenge, success – he built his life around his relationship with these intangible objects. His demanding beloveds, his insatiable relations. Yet when he satisfied them, it was so sweet.

Years later, Dr. Facilier laughed to himself as a bald man with the shedding remains of thick red curls asked him for assistance, and then became the primary target for the Sasquatch of New Orleans hunt. Oh, how he loved what he did.


End file.
